Dick ordered breakfast for both of them, which arrived moments after Maureen returned from the gym, clutching the half-empty Evian bottle.
“How did your training go?” Dick asked.
“Not great,” Maureen replied. “I felt a bit listless.”
“Probably just jetlag,” suggested Dick as he took his place on the far side of the table. He poured his wife a glass of water, and himself another orange juice. Dick opened a copy of the Herald Tribune, which he began to read while he waited for his wife to dress. Hillary Clinton said she wouldn’t be running for president, which only convinced Dick that she would, especially as she made the announcement standing by her husband’s side.
Maureen came out of the bathroom wearing a hotel dressing gown. She took the seat opposite her husband and sipped the water.
“Better take a bottle of Evian with us when we visit the Hermitage,” said Maureen. Dick looked up from behind his paper. “The girl in the gym warned me not, under any circumstances, to drink the local water.”
“Oh yes, I should have warned you,” said Dick, as Maureen took a bottle from the table by the window and put it in her bag. “Can’t be too careful.”
Dick and Maureen strolled through the front gates of the Hermitage a few minutes before ten, to find themselves at the back of a long queue. The crocodile of visitors progressed slowly forward along an unshaded cobbled path. Maureen took several sips of water between turning the pages of the guidebook. It was ten forty before they reached the ticket booth. Once inside, Maureen continued to study her guidebook. “Whatever we do, we must be sure to see Michelangelo’s Crouching Boy, Raphael’s Virgin, and Leonardo’s Madonna Benois”
Dick smiled his agreement, but knew he wouldn’t be concerning himself with the masters.
As they climbed the wide marble staircase, they passed several magnificent statues nestled in alcoves. Dick was surprised to discover just how vast the Hermitage was. Despite visiting St. Petersburg several times during the past three years, he had only ever seen the building from the outside.
“Housed on three floors, Tsar Peter’s collection displays treasures in over two hundred rooms,” Maureen told him, reading from the guidebook. “So let’s get started.”
By eleven thirty they had only covered the Dutch and Italian schools on the first floor, by which time Maureen had finished the large bottle of Evian.
Dick volunteered to go and buy another bottle. He left his wife admiring Caravaggio’s The Lute Player, while he slipped into the nearest rest room. He refilled the empty Evian bottle with tap water before rejoining his wife. If Maureen had spent a little time studying one of the many drinks counters situated on each floor, she would have discovered that the Hermitage doesn’t stock Evian, because it has an exclusive contract with Volvic.
By twelve thirty they had all but covered the sixteen rooms devoted to the Renaissance artists, and agreed it was time for lunch. They left the building and strolled back into the midday sun. The two of them walked for a while along the bank of the Moika River, stopping only to take a photograph of a bride and groom posing on the Blue Bridge in front of the Mariinsky Palace.
“A local tradition,” said Maureen, turning another page of her guidebook.
After walking another block, they came to a halt outside a small pizzeria. Its sensible square tables with neat red-and-white check tablecloths and smartly dressed waiters tempted them inside.
“I must go to the loo,” said Maureen. “I’m feeling a little queasy. It must be the heat.” She added, “Just order me a salad and a glass of water.”
Dick smiled, removed the Evian bottle from her bag and filled up the glass on her side of the table. When the waiter appeared, Dick ordered a salad for his wife, and ravioli plus a large diet coke for himself. He was desperate for something to drink.
Once she’d eaten her salad, Maureen perked up a little, and even began to tell Dick what they should look out for when they visited the Summer Palace.
On the long taxi ride through the north of the city, she continued to read extracts from her guidebook. “Peter the Great built the Summer Palace after he had visited Versailles, and on returning to Russia employed the finest landscape gardeners and most gifted craftsmen in the land to reproduce the French masterpiece. He intended the finished work to be a homage to the French, whom he greatly admired as the leaders of style throughout Europe.”
The taxi driver interrupted her flow with a snippet of information of his own. “We are just passing the recently constructed Winter Palace, which is where President Putin stays whenever he’s in St. Petersburg.” The driver paused. “And, as the national flag is flying, he must be in town.”
“He’s flown down from Moscow especially to see me,” said Dick.
The taxi driver dutifully laughed.
The taxi drove through the gates of the Summer Palace half an hour later and the driver dropped his passengers off in a crowded carpark, bustling with sightseers and traders, who were standing behind their makeshift stalls plying their cheap souvenirs.
“Let’s go and see the real thing,” suggested Maureen.
“I wait for you here,” said the taxi driver. “No extra charge. How long?” he added.
“I should think we’d be a couple of hours,” said Dick. “No more.”
“I wait for you here,” he repeated.
The two of them strolled around the magnificent gardens, and Dick could see why it was described in the guidebooks as a “can’t afford to miss,” with five stars. Maureen continued to brief him between sips of water. “The grounds surrounding the palace cover over a hundred acres, with more than twenty fountains, as well as eleven other palatial residences.” Although the sun was no longer burning down, the sky was still clear and Maureen continued to take regular gulps of water, but however many times she offered the bottle to Dick, he always replied, “No thanks.”
When they finally climbed the steps of the palace, they were greeted by another long queue, and Maureen admitted that she was feeling a little tired.
“Pity to have traveled this far,” said Dick, “and not take a look inside.”
His wife reluctantly agreed.
When they reached the front of the queue, Dick purchased two entrance tickets and, for a small extra charge, selected an English-speaking guide to show them around.
“I don’t feel too good,” said Maureen as they entered the Empress Catherine’s bedroom. She clung onto the four-poster bed.
“You must drink lots of water on such a hot day,” suggested the tour guide helpfully. By the time they had reached Tsar Nicholas IV’s study, Maureen warned her husband that she thought she was going to faint. Dick apologized to their guide, put an arm around his wife’s shoulder and assisted her out of the palace on an unsteady journey back to the carpark. They found their taxi driver standing by his car waiting for them.
“We must return to the Grand Palace Hotel immediately,” said Dick, as his wife fell into the back seat of the car like a drunk who has been thrown out of a pub on a Saturday night.
On the long drive back to St. Petersburg, Maureen was violently sick in the back of the taxi, but the driver didn’t comment, just maintained a steady speed as he continued along the highway. Forty minutes later, he came to a halt outside the Grand Palace Hotel. Dick handed over a wodge of notes and apologized.
“Hope madam better soon,” he said.
“Yes, let’s hope so,” replied Dick.
Dick helped his wife out of the back of the car, and guided her up the steps into the hotel lobby and quickly toward the lifts, not wishing to draw attention to himself. He had her safely back in their suite moments later. Maureen immediately disappeared into the bathroom, and even with the door closed Dick could hear her retching. He searched around the room. In their absence, all the bottles of Evian had been replaced. He only bothered to empty the one by Maureen’s bedside, which he refilled with tap water from the kitchenette.
Maureen finally emerged from the bathroom, a
nd collapsed onto the bed. “I feel awful,” she said.
“Perhaps you ought to take a couple of aspirin, and try to get some sleep?”
Maureen nodded weakly. “Could you fetch them for me? They’re in my wash bag.”
“Of course, my darling.” Once he’d found the pills, he filled a glass with tap water, before returning to his wife’s side. She had taken off her dress, but not her slip. Dick helped her to sit up and became aware for the first time that she was soaked in sweat. She swilled down the two aspirins with the glass of water Dick offered her. He lowered her gently down onto the pillow before drawing the curtains. He then strolled across to the bedroom door, opened it, and placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the door knob. The last thing he needed was for a solicitous maid to come barging in and find his wife in her present state. Once Dick was certain she was asleep, he went down to dinner.
“Will madam be joining you this evening?” inquired the head waiter, once Dick was seated.
“No, sadly not,” replied Dick, “she has a slight migraine. Too much sun I fear, but I’m sure she’ll be fine by the morning.”
“Let’s hope so, sir. What can I interest you in tonight?”
Dick took his time perusing the menu, before he eventually said, “I think I’ll start with the foie gras, followed by a rump steak—” he paused—”medium rare.”
“Excellent choice, sir.”
Dick poured himself a glass of water from the bottle on the table and quickly gulped it down, before filling his glass a second time. He didn’t hurry his meal, and when he returned to his suite just after ten, he was delighted to find his wife was fast asleep. He picked up her glass, took it to the bathroom and refilled it with tap water. He then put it back on her side of the bed. Dick took his time undressing, before finally slipping under the covers to settle down next to his wife. He turned out the bedside light and slept soundly.
When Dick woke the following morning, he found that he too was covered in sweat. The sheets were also soaked, and when he turned over to look at his wife all the color had drained from her cheeks.
Dick eased himself out of bed, slipped into the bathroom and took a long shower. Once he had dried himself, he put on one of the hotel’s toweling dressing gowns and returned to the bedroom. He crept over to his wife’s side of the bed and once again refilled her empty glass with tap water. She had clearly woken during the night, but not disturbed him.
He drew the curtains before checking that the Do Not Disturb sign was still on the door. He returned to his wife’s side of the bed, pulled up a chair and began to read the Herald Tribune. He had reached the sports pages by the time she woke. Her words were slurred. She managed, “I feel awful.” A long pause followed before she added, “Don’t you think I ought to see a doctor?”
“He’s already been to examine you, my dear,” said Dick. “I called for him last night. Don’t you remember? He told you that you’d caught a fever, and you’ll just have to sweat it out.”
“Did he leave any pills?” asked Maureen plaintively.
“No, my darling. He just said you weren’t to eat anything, but to try and drink as much water as possible.” He held the glass up to her lips and she attempted to gulp some more down. She even managed, “Thank you,” before collapsing back onto the pillow.
“Don’t worry, my darling,” said Dick. “You’re going to be just fine, and I promise you I won’t leave your side, even for a moment.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. She fell asleep again.
The only time Dick left Maureen’s side that day was to assure the housekeeper that his wife did not wish to have the sheets changed, to refill the glass of water on her bedside table, and late in the afternoon to take a call from the minister.
“The President flew in yesterday,” were Chenkov’s opening words. “He’s staying at the Winter Palace, where I’ve just left him. He wanted me to let you know how much he is looking forward to meeting you and your wife.”
“How kind of him,” said Dick, “but I have a problem.”
“A problem?” said a man who didn’t like problems, especially when the President was in town.
“It’s just that Maureen seems to have caught a fever. We were out in the sun all day yesterday, and I’m not sure that she will have fully recovered in time to join us for the signing ceremony, so I may be on my own.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Chenkov, “and how are you?”
“Never felt better,” said Dick.
“That’s good,” said Chenkov, sounding relieved. “So I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock, as agreed. I don’t want to keep the President waiting.”
“Neither do I, Anatol,” Dick assured him. “You’ll find me standing in the lobby long before nine.”
There was a knock on the door. Dick quickly put the phone down and rushed across to open it before anyone was given a chance to barge in. A maid was standing in the corridor next to a trolley laden with sheets, towels, bars of soap, shampoo bottles and cases of Evian water.
“You want the bed turned down, sir?” she asked, giving him a smile.
“No, thank you,” said Dick. “My wife is not feeling well.” He pointed to the Do Not Disturb sign.
“More water, perhaps?” she suggested, holding up a large bottle of Evian.
“No,” he repeated firmly and closed the door.
The only other call that evening came from the hotel manager. He asked politely if madam would like to see the hotel doctor.
“No, thank you,” said Dick. “She just caught a little sun but she’s on the mend, and I feel sure she will have fully recovered by the morning.”
“Just give me a call,” said the manager, “should she change her mind. The doctor can be with you in minutes.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” said Dick, “but it won’t be necessary,” he added before putting the phone down. He returned to his wife’s side. Her skin was now pallid and blotchy. He leaned forward until he was almost touching her lips—she was still breathing. He walked across to the fridge, opened it and took out all the unopened bottles of Evian water. He placed two of them in the bathroom, and one each side of the bed. His final action, before undressing, was to take the DON’T DRINK THE WATER sign out of his suitcase and replace it on the side of the washbasin.
Chenkov’s car pulled up outside the Grand Palace Hotel a few minutes before nine the following morning. Karl jumped out to open the back door for the minister.
Chenkov walked quickly up the steps and into the hotel, expecting to find Dick waiting for him in the lobby. He looked up and down the crowded corridor, but there was no sign of his business partner. He marched across to the reception desk and asked if Mr. Barnsley had left a message for him.
“No, Minister,” replied the concierge. “Would you like me to call his room?” The minister nodded briskly They both waited for some time, before the concierge added, “No one is answering the phone, Minister, so perhaps Mr. Barnsley is on his way down.”
Chenkov nodded again, and began pacing up and down the lobby, continually glancing toward the elevator, before checking his watch. At ten past nine, the minister became even more anxious, as he had no desire to keep the President waiting. He returned to the reception desk.
“Try again,” he demanded.
The concierge immediately dialed Mr. Barnsley’s room number, but could only report that there was still no reply
“Send for the manager,” barked the minister. The concierge nodded, picked up the phone once again and dialed a single number.
A few moments later, a tall, elegantly dressed man in a dark suit was standing by Chenkov’s side.
“How may I assist you, Minister?” he asked.
“I need to go up to Mr. Barnsley’s room.”
“Of course, Minister, please follow me.”
When the three men arrived on the ninth floor, they quickly made their way to the Tolstoy Suite, where they found the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the door knob. The m
inister banged loudly on the door, but there was no response.
“Open the door,” he demanded. The concierge obeyed without hesitation.
The minister marched into the room, followed by the manager and the concierge. Chenkov came to an abrupt halt when he saw two motionless bodies lying in bed. The concierge didn’t need to be told to call for a doctor.
Sadly, the doctor had attended three such cases in the past month, but with a difference—they had all been locals. He studied his two patients for some time before he passed a judgment.
“The Siberian disease,” he confirmed, almost in a whisper. He paused and, looking up at the minister, added, “The lady undoubtedly died during the night, whereas the gentleman has passed away within the last hour.”
The minister made no comment.
“My initial conclusion,” continued the doctor, “is that she probably caught the disease from drinking too much of the local water—” he paused as he looked down at Dicks lifeless body—”while her husband must have contracted the virus from his wife, probably during the night. Not an uncommon occurrence among married couples,” he added. “Like so many of our countrymen, he clearly wasn’t aware that—” he hesitated before uttering the word in front of the minister—”Siherius is one of those rare diseases that is not only infectious but highly contagious.”
“But I called him last night,” protested the manager, “and asked if he’d like to see a doctor, and he said it wasn’t necessary, as his wife was on the mend and he was confident that she would be fully recovered by the morning.”
“How sad,” said the doctor, before adding, “if only he’d said yes. It would have been too late to revive his wife, but I still might have saved him.”
It Can’t Be
October Already
Patrick O’Flynn Stood in front of H. Samuel, the jeweler’s, holding a brick in his right hand. He was staring intently at the window. He smiled, raised his arm and hurled the brick at the glass pane. The window shattered like a spiders web, but remained firmly in place. An alarm was immediately set off, which in the still of a clear, cold October night could be heard half a mile away More important to Pat, the alarm was directly connected to the local police station.
Cat O'Nine Tales (2006) Page 7